


Promise/Land

by sweetiejelly



Category: As the World Turns, As the World Turns RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetiejelly/pseuds/sweetiejelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys in transit. (Chapter 1, <i>Promise</i>, is Luke/Noah and chapter 2, <i>Land</i>, is Van/Jake.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promise

**Author's Note:**

> These are two unrelated ficlets - _Promise_ is Luke/Noah and _Land_ is Van/Jake. Written for [nukeminibang](http://nukeminibang.livejournal.com/) 2013\. Many thanks to my lovely betas Beth, Monday and G! ♥
> 
> Cross-posted to [LJ](http://sweetiejelly.livejournal.com/183905.html).

His hand is there, calluses softened with lotion, cupping the side of your face. His face is all emotion, a contradiction of hard planes of cheeks and soft curves of lips. (And bright sparkles of eyes, ink drops on iris.)

He leans in and you hold your breath. At least that’s what you thought you were doing. Only, you’re breathing in sharp and pulling the scents of him with you. Forward, forward, in. Coffee – check. Rain – check.

This is, in a way, a rain check. You have waited so many days. His schedule. Your schedule. Outlook sucked for a whole long week. You wished it were a desktop because then you could sweep everything off the table, just have _him_ on the table.

You did that once. Have him on the table. Dorm room, you remember. Roommate out. Perfect condition to learn, explore, _expand_ your knowledge. You thirsted for it. Literally. Drooled seeing him bare, pressed forward against the chair. The tease.

He does that. Tease you. Think you're so put together, held tight by what you think is right. But he’s wrong. There are no strings where he’s concerned. You’re his freely. He cuts you free just as surely as he cuts you deep.

Right there. You think you have lungs, a heart hiding shy behind. But no, you are cleaved, raw and exposed where he’s concerned. You want to be tough, resist the knife edge of his lean. But you’re only completely in love. Have been for longer than you dared to admit.

His words – they bite. Or they could. Worse than anyone else’s. He matters. Almost too much. You hate that about him. You hate that you could lose him to any whim of the world. You hate that your hands around his waist, sliding hot up his back are the only concrete things that anchor him to you.

But anchor they do. He feels solid in your arms, spicy and clean and warm. He opens his mouth and backs off at the first snag of lips on lips. _Tease_. You laugh, a light puff of air that you follow, down to the curve of his neck. You bite him there to hear his breath hitch, feel the space of his lungs expand, pushing his chest up towards you like a reward. Look, I’m the same, cleaved to you, the opposite of indifferent. I love –

You lick him right afterwards because you love –

He moans into the small space of the front seat. You really don’t have time, were on your way to a family thing before you pulled over for less of a family thing and more of a family- _making_ thing. (Without babies.)

“ _Baby_.” He arches into you, rolls his hips to grind against yours.

You hold him tighter and suck kisses into his neck because you could. You cup the back of his head (so it doesn't hit the windshield). So you can feel how perfectly it fits into your palms, molded for you.

He yanks on your hair just sharp enough so your chin snaps up. He meets your lips with his, desperate the way he gets, with slides of tongue so insistent it feels like he’s touching you everywhere. _Every_ where. 

There too.

You buck up from the seat. To press closer to him. To press him closer to you. It’s the same. No teeth of seam separate you. No state line. Nothing. 

“Tonight,” he swears it, “I’ll get you to scream for me.”

You swallow hard and wish you could swallow whole lengths of time. “Same here,” you tell him and press the heel of your palm down the front of his jeans. “Promise.”


	2. Land

Land - it’s a good word usually, especially to an actor. But air is good, too, you think. Up in the air means possibilities, dreams ongoing. 

And this thing? You and him? Being up in the air? It's almost the best you can hope for. You have crawled and crawled, through bottles and bottles, trying to delay the inevitable.

What you think is inevitable. He lives there. You live here. Land in between you. So much of it. And just screw land. Screw this distance in between his skin and your skin, his laugh and your laugh.

You watch him a lot. Sometimes even when he’s right next to you. You watch him in action and note the subtle shifts between him, the guy you’re falling for, and him, the actor the fans have fallen for. You think you’re lucky to know him like this.

To know a fold of the mystery, memoir-making facts. Not that you would go there. You’re too selfish for that, want to keep hold of all that is him distilled, raw and vulnerable, marred and beautiful.

You trace the shell of his ear with your tongue and breathe out hot, feel him shiver against you in the small cabin space of the restroom. Only, there’s no rest in this room. His thighs clamp tighter around your length and his nails dig harder into your side. “C’mon, c’mon,” he urges. “Don’t wanna miss the peanuts.”

It surprises a laugh out of you and you jerk him faster, twisting groans from him. His panting is sexy, but it’s his groans that you can’t get enough of. They rip from his throat so guttural and uncontrolled – real. They’re enough to set you off over the phone, over Skype. They’re better than enough in person. You splatter between his warmth and rest your chin on his shoulder, tuck your face into his neck.

He thrusts into your palm and comes (groaning). You hold him tighter against your chest. For some reason you think he can’t see you (even though there’s a small square of mirror right there). You let your features relax, post-orgasmic, and inhale him, you. But your illusions are shattered when he says, a smile in his voice, “Look at you.”

You look at him instead. “Look at _you_ ,” you counter.

“Look at us,” he says.

You do. You look at how he’s leaning back against you, hair mussed and smile firm. You look as he turns his face to you and kisses your cheek and then gently, air soft, kisses your lips.

You never want to land.


End file.
